


Elements of Supernatural Thermodynamics

by p1013



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Hypothermia, M/M, POV Stiles Stilinski, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: It's been snowing for an hour, at least. It started slow at first, a gentle drifting of flakes that had reminded Stiles of Christmas cards and holiday specials, but the storm had given up on its holiday theme pretty quickly. Now, the snow is so thick, he can't make out anything more than a few steps in front of him.





	Elements of Supernatural Thermodynamics

It's been snowing for an hour, at least. It started slow at first, a gentle drifting of flakes that had reminded Stiles of Christmas cards and holiday specials, but the storm had given up on its holiday theme pretty quickly. Now, the snow is so thick, he can't make out anything more than a few steps in front of him. His backpack, which hadn't felt heavy when they'd set out on this hunt for a _freaking yeti_ , is cutting into his shoulders through the thick insulation of his jacket, and as much as he's tried, he can't shift it from the spot. There's also a rope tied around his waist and trailing forward, the nylon looped carefully around Derek so they don't get separated. Stiles wishes he'd thought of the precaution before Scott, Malia, and Liam had disappeared into the blank white of the storm.

He's half-convinced he's going to freeze solid before he and Derek manage to find the rest of the pack. Derek had been able to track their scent at first, but the longer it's been storming, the less of a trail he's had to follow. The snow covers any scent with each progressive inch piled on the rocky ground of the mountain. Even the thick pine trees do little to stop it from filling in their path, and Stiles has to drag his way through shin-deep snow, even with Derek cutting a way before him.

There's a tug around his waist, and Stiles looks up, eyes squinted against the icy bite of the storm against his face.

"We need to find shelter." Derek has to yell over the roar of the wind to be heard, and Stiles nods as he tries to stop his teeth from chattering.

"You have any idea where that might be?"

"There's a game trail near here," Derek says. "It's faint, but I can smell humans on it. Probably hunters. Hopefully, there's a lodge or cabin nearby."

"Let's go, then," Stiles says before stuffing his hands into his jacket. Even with the thick mittens and the down lining of his jacket, he's freezing. Fucking wind chill…

Derek nods, then turns back into the storm, dragging Stiles, stumbling and blind, behind him.

He doesn't know how long they walk or where they go. He's lost all sense of time and direction in the blizzard, but eventually, his tired and aching legs notice the lack of resistance as Derek drags him under an overhang. Stiles blinks up at the old and cracked wood that's overhead. The roof is attached to a slightly battered log cabin. The wood is stained dark with age, and one of the shutters on the wide front windows is hanging on by a single screw. It clatters to the porch as Stiles watches, but the cabin is still one of the most beautiful places Stiles has ever seen.

"Oh, thank God." He falls up the low steps leading to the porch and slams his hands against the front door. The screen rattles as he wrenches it open, but the door into the cabin refuses to budge as Stiles's mitten-clad hands slip on the metal knob. He shakes it, cursing, then turns to Derek.

"Werewolf this thing open," he says, stepping back. 

Derek raises an eyebrow, but moves closer. He crowds into Stiles's space, frowning as Stiles's heart rate kicks into high gear, then bends down to lift the edge of a badly stained door mat. He picks up a tarnished key that slides easily into the lock. The door swings open, and Derek gestures for Stiles to enter.

"Good werewolfing," he mutters before ducking inside.

The interior of the cabin doesn't look much better than the exterior, but since there's no snow inside, Stiles considers it a vast improvement. The Hilton it may not be, but it's better than what they'd been dealing with. 

It's a basic setup, everything crammed into a single room. There's a kichenette to the right of the door with dated cabinets, a small sink, and a breakfast bar instead of a sitting area. A wood burning stove sits empty and cold in the middle of the living room, with a pile of wood in an iron log holder nearby. There's a small rug in front, and tucked next to the stove is a single twin bed. Its threadbare quilt calls to Stiles, and he quickly starts undoing the rope around his waist. Derek slams the door behind him and unties his end of the rope, albeit more carefully than Stiles.

"What's the plan?" Derek asks as he coils the rope up and lays it near the door.

"Get warm," Stiles says through his chattering teeth. His sodden backpack lands heavily on the floor, followed quickly by his jacket and mittens. He hurries to the bed and pulls the quilt off of it to wrap it around his shoulders. It's not much, but it's dry, and he buries his freezing hands and face into the musty fabric. His breath fogs in the air as he speaks. "You know how to light one of those things?"

Derek hangs his parka up by the door and kicks his boots off before wandering over to the stove. He pulls the small door open and looks inside.

"I can smell fresh air, so I think the chimney's clear. If we can find some matches and tinder, I should be able to get it going."

"Awesome." Stiles heads to his backpack and opens it. "I'm pretty sure I put a firestarter in here when I packed."

He pulls out a map and compass, some notes on the latest sightings, and a package of freeze-dried blueberries. There's a bit of trail mix underneath that, plus a change of socks and an old comic book. He frowns as he sets that aside, figuring it'll work for tinder if they can't find anything else in the cabin. But as he reaches the bottom of his pack, there's no sign of the fire starter.

"Shit," he sighs. He can feel Derek still from in front of the stove.

"What?" He asks, voice gruff with pending annoyance.

"You see any matches over there?"

"No," Derek growls. "I do not. I thought you said you had a fire starter."

"No, I said I thought I'd packed one. I, apparently, did not. I do, however, have tinder." He throws the comic book over to Derek, who starts tearing pages out of it with a little more enjoyment than is necessary.

"Go check the kitchen," Derek says. "There might be matches in there."

Stiles, still shivering even though he's wrapped in the quilt, wanders into the kitchen and starts pulling open drawers. Most of them are empty, but he finds a small book of matches. It's the flimsy kind, just a bent over piece of cardstock that protects the thin line of cardboard matches, but it's all they've got.

"Found some!" he shouts, holding them up triumphantly.

"Bring them here," Derek says. "I'm freezing."

"I thought your werewolf metabolism kept you warm," Stiles says before handing the matches to Derek. He shrugs the blanket tighter around his face and settles on the bed.

"Doesn't mean I don't get cold," Derek mutters. He carefully removes a match, then strikes it against the coarse strip on the cover. It rasps loudly, but fails to light. Derek tries again with the same result, then tosses it into the belly of the stove. He pulls out another match, then another, as they all fail to light.

"Let me try," Stiles says. Derek hands him the matchbook with an eyeroll. Stiles pulls out their second to last match, then folds the cover over, the match head held between it and the striking surface. He presses down, holding firm pressure against the match head, then pulls it out with a quick jerk.

He pulls the phosphorus off the tip of the match, then sheepishly hands it back to Derek.

"You're an idiot," Derek grumbles. He pulls out the last match, then looks at Stiles carefully. "Your lips are turning blue."

"Better not fuck this up, then," he says with a chattering grin.

Derek strikes the match, and it flares to life. Their eyes meet, triumphant, and Stiles lets out a relieved breath.

That puts the match out.

"You've got to be kidding me," Derek says as he watches smoke trail from the match. "Did you break a mirror before we left? Kick a black cat under a ladder?" He throws the match angrily into the stove before slamming its little door shut.

Stiles hunches in on himself and tugs the edges of the blanket tighter around his body. Derek sighs.

"Get undressed," he says as he stands.

Stiles blanches, a wicked thrill of hope lancing through him. "What?"

His attraction to Derek is something he's spent years avoiding. Everyone in the pack knows about it, though they're all too kind and gentle to say anything about it where Derek can hear. Stiles has cried on a variety of shoulders about his hopeless crush, some more understanding than others. (Liam is the person to go to when you want to cry into a pint of ice cream; Malia will throw you out of a window if you even think of shedding a tear). The long and the short of it is that Stiles has spent a very long time trying to _not_ imagine Derek telling him to take his clothes off, and now that it's happening, his brain has decided to reboot on him. He blinks at Derek and hopes his mouth isn't hanging open.

"Your clothes are soaked," Derek says, looking at Stiles like he's an idiot. "That storm isn't stopping anytime soon, and it's only going to get colder overnight. I'll see if I can find some more blankets, but if you don't want to become hypothermic, you need to get out of those clothes and into that bed."

"Oh," Stiles says, squashing the low thrum of excitement in his gut like a many-legged insect, before dropping the quilt from his shoulders. He unbuttons his plaid shirt with trembling fingers and hangs it from one of the chairs at the breakfast bar. His jeans are soaked through and pull uncomfortably from his legs as he takes them off. The shock of cold air against his skin makes him shiver, and he hurries back to the bed, snagging his spare socks from his pack and changing into them before crawling into the bed. He pulls the quilt up around his face, his knees pulled into his chest as he shivers under the blankets.

While Stiles is undressing, Derek digs through the various closets and storage containers in the room. He makes a happily surprised noise, then pulls a pile of quilts out of a chest on the far wall. He carries them over to the bed and drops them on top of Stiles in a heavy mass, then starts smoothing them out over the other blankets.

After making sure the quilts are all spread out in a neat pile, Derek strips his shirt off, the damp fabric clinging to his body. Stiles turns onto his side, facing away, before the gentle roll of Derek's body can set his off, but he wonders if the fire that Derek ignites in his blood could be enough to start the wood in the stove burning. It certainly feels like it to Stiles.

There's quiet rustling behind him. Stiles curls tighter into himself, his knees nearly under his chin as he tries to conserve his body heat. He's definitely not doing it to avoid the reaction he's having to Derek stripping behind him. The blankets pull up, a cold gust of wind against his back making Stiles shiver, and the old mattress sinks under Derek's weight.

Stiles shivers again, but not from the cold. The twin bed is barely big enough for Stiles's lanky frame, and what little room is left is overwhelmed by Derek's. With the ‘wolf nested under the blankets, his heat fills the pocket of air around their bodies with a radiance like the sun. Stiles can feel it against the bare skin of his back, and he fights the urge to sink into Derek's warmth, to press his cold, clammy skin against the hard planes of Derek's chest.

"Starting to warm up?" Derek asks, and Stiles can feel the words as Derek says them. The mattress shifts with each syllable, warm breath tickling against the nape of his neck. His body trembles, and he fights for breath.

"Yeah," he whispers into the pillow beneath his head. "Definitely warmer now."

"You're still shivering," Derek says with annoyance. The bed shifts again, and then there's hot skin all along Stiles's back. "Hypothermia isn't a joke, Stiles."

He's not cold anymore. Now, he's afraid he's going to burst into flames and take down the cabin with him. Derek pulls him closer, his arms wrapped around Stiles's chest like a molten band, and Stiles slams his eyes shut as if that will keep his body under control. If he can trick his brain into thinking this is the end of another early morning dream — the hazy edges of it so close to a reality he can touch if he can just chase after it — maybe it'll be okay. Instead, it brings those fantasies boiling up, overflowing his mind to spill out around him in shuddering waves of repressed desire that makes his body stiffen.

Derek shifts behind Stiles, getting comfortable. After a moment, he sighs.

"If this is making you uncomfortable," he starts, but Stiles cuts him off.

"No, no," he stammers, trying to loosen his tensed muscles and come up with a reasonable explanation. "I'm just not used to… I haven't shared a bed since…"

"Since you and Malia broke up," Derek offers.

"Right," Stiles says, scrambling after the excuse. "It's nothing personal."

"Of course," Derek says, and there's a twinge to his voice, a small, hurt thing that makes Stiles pause.

"It's nothing against you," Stiles says, continuing to dig this particular grave. "I like you, y'know, now that we're friends. Not that we weren't friends before, just that we're _better_ friends now. And you're definitely hot like burning, which is very much appreciated right now because I think my toes were going to turn into ice cubes, but this whole thing is kind of my fault, and I'm worried about the rest of the pack with this stor—"

Derek slaps his hand over Stiles's mouth, cutting off his stream of words.

"I get it," he says. "You can stop trying to explain it to me, all right?"

Stiles nods and tries to lick his lips in a nervous motion he doesn't consider until it's too late. He hadn't thought about the heavy weight of Derek's palm against his mouth, and now he can't stop himself. His tongue presses against Derek's calloused skin, tasting sweat and a musky flavor that's all Derek. Derek curls his hand away but leaves it cupped over Stiles's mouth. Stiles fights the urge to chase after it, to bring that warm flesh back to his lips so he can lave at it with teeth and tongue.

He definitely doesn't wonder what Derek's fingers would feel like in his mouth, if they'd press down against his tongue while he gently sucked against the rough flesh.

Derek goes still behind him, his whole body turning to granite against Stiles's back.

"What are you thinking about?" Derek asks cautiously.

"Nothing," Stiles mumbles into the space between his mouth and Derek's hand. The air trapped there is heavy with his exhaled breath, warm and humid. Derek pulls his hand away, letting his fingers trail over Stiles's lips. His mouth opens slightly at the touch, warm air ghosting over the pads of Derek's fingers.

"You sure about that?" Derek asks. He pulls Stiles tighter into his body and settles his nose into the crook of Stiles's neck before taking a deep breath.

"May—" Stiles bites back a groan as Derek trails his nose over the nape of Stiles's neck. It tickles, and he shivers again, his lip caught between his teeth. "Maybe."

"You don't sound convinced." His lips brush against the delicate skin between Stiles's shoulder blades. Stubbles rasps as Derek drags his face up the side of Stiles's neck and speaks low into his ear. "Do you want to convince me?"

"Holy fuck," Stiles gasps. "This isn't how this works."

"What do you mean?" The words are warm breath against his skin.

"You pretend you don't know about my hopeless crush, and I pretend to only check you out on alternating Thursdays. We don't… we don't do whatever this is."

"Who said it was hopeless?"

And yes, that's definitely lips trailing over the pulse throbbing in his neck. Derek Hale is _kissing his neck_ , and Stiles's brain is fritzing out, electricity coursing through his body like a circuit breaker that's about to trip.

Oh, God, that was a _tongue_.

"What's happening right now?" he croaks out, his hands clawing at Derek's arm as it starts to drift lower.

"Whatever you want to happen," Derek says as he pulls back. "I won't push."

"No. No, no, no." Stiles wrenches himself around, turning under the heavy weight of Derek's arm to face him.

The bed is _tiny_ , and that's suddenly, painfully apparent as Stiles realizes his face and Derek's are only inches apart. He's never been this close to Derek's face in his _life_ , and he feels like mourning all of the little details that he's missed so far. He never knew that Derek's pupils were outlined in gold, that their blue-green color was such a distinct mix of the two colors, like spring water pooling in summer shade. Stiles is turned on and feeling poetic, and Derek is starting to look at him like he's nuts.

He wants to lick Derek's _eyebrows_ , so maybe he is.

"Are you… Do you…" Stiles darts his eyes over Derek's face, trying to find somewhere for them to settle without his skin feeling too tight for his body. "What?"

Derek grins, slow and lazy. "Who said it was a hopeless crush?"

"Everyone," Stiles breaths. "Me. The newspaper, if I'd asked them."

"You didn't ask me."

His face is closer. Stiles can feel Derek's breath on his lips, and he can't think anymore. His brain has officially shut down. His heart is beating and his lungs are moving, but that's it. His system is running on brain stem functionality and nothing else. He's officially in a coma, his eyes open only because someone hasn't taped them shut yet.

"Do you want to ask me?"

"Oh fuck," Stiles says, and his lips brush against Derek's. "Yes. Do you…?"

Derek rushes forward and catches Stiles's words with his mouth. And then they're _kissing_ , and Stiles is lost to it. The soft, slow drag of skin against skin. The taste of Derek's lips, his tongue. The feel of broad hands buried in his hair, pulling him closer, though there's no space between them. 

Stiles trails his hands over Derek's body, hesitant and desperate at the same time. He's wanted to know the feel of this skin, these muscles, beneath his hands for years, and now that he has the right to touch, he doesn't know where to start. He eventually settles on the low dip of Derek's back, and he lets his fingers trace the edge of Derek's boxers.

"So does this mean you like me?" Stiles finally asks, panting for breath.

Derek laughs, sounding exasperated and fond. "Yes, you idiot."

He kisses Stiles again, softer this time, a little reverent. It makes the breath catch in his lungs, and the warmth in his stomach blossoms into something deeper, a low, languid curl of emotion that makes him simultaneously elated and on the edge of tears.

"We should try to get some sleep," Derek offers, his hand trailing over the slope of Stiles's cheek.

"We should not do that," Stiles says as he turns his head to press a kiss to Derek's palm. "We should do other things instead."

"Did you pack lube?" Derek trails his thumb over Stiles's lip, lets it catch as Stiles takes in a sharp breath. "Because if you didn't, we should save that thought for later."

Stiles bites at the tip of Derek's thumb, catching and holding it between his teeth. Derek's eyes darken as Stiles touches the tip of his tongue to Derek's skin before letting go. "You sure about that?"

Derek drags his hand down Stiles's back to rest on the curve of his ass, then pulls him close, their legs tangling as their hips press against each other. Stiles can feel Derek, hot and hard against his own length, and his eyes start to roll back in his head.

"You seem like a talker," Derek says as he tilts Stiles's head back to mouth at the corded muscles of his neck. "I wonder what it'd take to shut you up."

"I can think of at least one thing," Stiles says, and Derek chuckles. He presses a fond kiss to the underside of Stiles's jaw, the curve of his lips both amused and wicked.

"I want to take you apart," Derek continues. "I want to watch you fall to pieces, just so I can put you back together and do it all over again. And I want to do it somewhere without the risk of hypothermia."

"Spoil sport." Stiles grinds against Derek, and he thrills at the groan that drags its way from Derek's throat.

"Stiles…"

"Fine," Stiles pouts, turning so that he's facing away from Derek. "But I expect to be aggressively spooned. If you're not getting all up on this, I'm at least going to be warm."

"I might be able to accommodate that request," Derek says before wrapping one of his arms around Stiles's waist and pulling him in close. He tucks his chin over Stiles's shoulder and presses a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. "And I promise, as soon as there's zero chance that either of our dicks will freeze off, I will ‘get all up on that'."

"Damn straight," Stiles says, his eyes starting to droop as Derek's laughter brushes past his face.

"I regret everything."

"No, y'don't," Stiles murmurs.

"No," Derek says before pressing a kiss to the back of Stiles's neck, "I don't."

**Author's Note:**

> Finding Teen Wolf discords was simultaneously the best and the worst thing I could do for my productivity.


End file.
